Onye ka m ga-ako.ro.?¹ Her world was bulb-whole, then it became a shredded

cabbage. When it rended, we knew
it will never heal. We knew healing

comes from the grave where father
now soothes earth's aching

muscles. We knew the river that once
fed into her ocean full of tasty delight

was now dried as bones. Gradually, she became invincible, nursing deep and

poignant grief, afraid of many things
only the mind reads like a book. Onye ka

m ga-ako.ro.? She dissipates like twigs aflame within a hearth. I saw

that as I lay in my bed one night - mother was hostaged in her shadow,

afraid of remaining without father, even in the warmth of her children; afraid that the

harp of petty and petulant quarreling
and concessions which once syringed

the beauty of their bond had stopped
rollicking in charms. In the end,

no one wants to be alone; everyone
wants to be free but locked in the feathers

of love fur. Mother desires that more
than ever. Onye ka m ga-ako.ro.? The sore

in her womb explains the furies of lonely waters, and rips her in shreds. If you

listened carefully, you would hear the veins in her chest stretching for father, stretching,

just to touch the pinnacle of father's memories. If you listened closely,

you would hear her beckoning father
to the stewing warmth of her breasts.

Onye ka m ga-ko.ro.? Onye?²

–